


Five Distasteful Moments

by angelsteak



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: A light sprinkling of fluff, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Boys Kissing, Come play, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, I’m hopelessly California so I can’t even pretend to know how British boys speak, Let’s forget the mage and the humdrum and get to the boys with feelings, M/M, Masturbation, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Thumb-sucking, Trauma is not easy to shake, baz likes to watch, intimacy is hard folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsteak/pseuds/angelsteak
Summary: I was made keenly aware, from an early age, that a Pitch boy wants for nothing."It's distasteful," my father once said.He said it so dispassionately I could tell he hardly wanted to mention it. The matter was clear, though, from the way he moved about our world. I never saw the great Malcolm Grimm desire for anything. He simply took what was rightfully his. He did so with a carefully-indifferent demeanor and a wardrobe full of impeccably-tailored suits.Wanting is beneath someone like me.But here I am, beneath Simon Snow, wanting more than I ever have in my life.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 144
Kudos: 392





	1. The Bed

I was made keenly aware, from an early age, that a Pitch boy wants for nothing.

"It's distasteful," my father once said.

He said it so dispassionately I could tell he hardly wanted to mention it. The matter was clear, though, from the way he moved about our world. I never saw the great Malcolm Grimm desire for anything. He simply took what was rightfully his. He did so with a carefully-indifferent demeanor and a wardrobe full of impeccably-tailored suits.

Wanting is beneath someone like me.

_But here I am, beneath Simon Snow, wanting more than I ever have in my life._

When I invited Snow to spend the holidays with me in Hampshire, I didn't think this would happen. I thought we’d work on Miss Possibelf's assignment until he lost interest and I finished it for us. I didn't expect to end up on my back, in the middle of my ostentatious victorian bed, with Simon bloody Snow slipping me the tongue.

The kisses started hours ago. I was pretending to study while watching Snow, as always, from my peripheral vision. He was lost in thought and chewing on the end of his highlighter like an uncultured child. And then he looked at me, more directly than he ever does, and pressed his mouth against mine.

His lips tasted minty and herbal - exactly like the high-end mouthwash we keep in the guest bathroom. This suggests his ambush might've been planned, but I am not capable of processing that information. I don't know what prompted this earth-shattering turn of events, but I do know that Simon Snow was kissing me - and I was kissing him back.

Then we just, you know, carried on. We carried on kissing while sitting on my bed with our legs crossed like primary school students. Our books laid forgotten in our laps, and our bodies swayed from the movement our mouths made. Snow doesn't stay still very well, even in times like this.

Eventually, he reached into our laps and tossed our books aside. Newly unencumbered, he began to lean me back against the sheets. I froze.

I'm a queer teenage vampire with magical powers, an unlimited allowance, and fire running through my veins. Surely nothing is impossible in a life like mine. But, truthfully, I've come to terms with the fact that I'd never experience this: someone wanting to be gentle with me, someone wanting to be with me in this way. Especially not Snow, the one who has always mattered most.

I'm still frozen now, still a mess of long, unmovable limbs and frightened eyes. Noticing my hesitation, Snow stalls.

"Too much?" he asks.

These are the first words either of us have spoken since this whole mindfuck started. I can tell he's prepared to stop, if I wanted him to. It's maddening how considerate he's being. I've come to expect distrust and hostility, not this gentle concern for my feelings.

"Not yet," I mutter with a small shake of my head.

"Never" is what I wanted to say, but I learned to be careful with my words around Snow years ago.

I will my body to relax, to yield beneath his touch. And now, I'm on my back in my childhood bed, and Snow is kissing me again. He’s summoning something akin to desire and unleashing it upon me. His pace is steady and slow, but I am devastated even more because of it.

I'm not sure how I am at this - this kissing business. I have no experience being close to boys I'm mad for. It's taking all that I have to hold on to whatever remains of my composure. 

I always thought I'd be filled with an overwhelming urge to drain him - to drink every drop - if I ever got this close. The urge is there, for certain. I can feel his pulse in his slick tongue as it slides against mine. He's warm, and he smells like my brand of food, through and through. Snow’s blood is a call that I want so desperately to answer. 

But, most of all, I want more of this: intimacy and timid teenage lust. 

That is enough for me. It’s too much, to be honest.

I keep my hands at my side to avoid grabbing him. Snow may have his hot breath in my face and a hand cradling my jaw, but there is so much I don't understand about this new development between us. Like how he feels. You know, about me. And about boys in general.

Crowley, I probably shouldn't be doing this. I mean, I'm definitely not stopping, but I think that I maybe should.

Suddenly, he straightens his arms, creating distance for the first time in ages, and looks down at me. He's on all fours above me, just looking with his blue fucking eyes and his honest fucking face. His lips are swollen and pink in a way I didn't know they could be. I hate it.

"Too much?" I ask, calling on his earlier words in an attempt to break the intensity.

"Nah," he says, with a cheeky grin, "come here."

I'm in over my head, well and truly.

I'm only ever bravado and sharp edges with him. I cut him down with my words and my cruelty. Anything less than our carefully-choreographed hatred would expose how utterly _soft_ I am for him. Being soft is a vulnerable state that turns like acid in my gut. I lash out, historically, to escape the ache.

But now, with the warmth from his breath still lingering on my lips and this unguarded openness in his stupidly pretty face, I reach up to meet him. I'm desperate to take whatever he will give.

My hands, resolutely by my side, even still, are holding most of the weight of my upper body. I may have lost myself entirely to this overwhelming and distasteful want, but I know it can only get worse. Want is all that I am, at this point.

Eventually, we pull apart, fully this time. We lay next to each other on the bed, side-by-side and panting. I lose myself in the feeling of the sheets under my fingers. Silky and smooth and not as cold as they usually are when I'm alone. Everything in this whole damned world is cold when I'm alone.

"Hey," Simon prods, "you alright in there?"

"Yeah, Snow," I say, "just tired."

He grabs my hand and lays his head against my shoulder. His hair is unnervingly soft, and he smells like the shampoo Daphne stocks for when guests visit.

"Night, Baz," he whispers while squeezing my hand.

It's a small gesture, considering all we've done tonight. I almost can't bear it.

I'm in my childhood bedroom, holding hands with Simon Snow - the Mage's Heir and Chosen One - and he's pushing blindly ahead, as always.


	2. The Garden

There's a magic to the moments immediately following a hunt. The pressing need for blood is sated, for now, and the ordinarily abrasive world is quiet and forgiving. Existing in this liminal space between bloodlust and the return to my life as a mage is easy.

I'm walking back now, across the damp earth that lines the woods on my family's Hampshire property. The morning air is crisp, and I can hear the muffled snapping of twigs under my feet. I watch a squirrel leap from branch to branch above my head. It's lovely - not feeling the need to strangle the little thing and feed from it.

My father is driving us back to Watford soon. This, too, is a transitional moment. It's like that short period between sleep and waking back in our room at Watford. My mind used to drift, almost unconsciously in these brief pockets of time, to thoughts of Simon. Inevitably, it would end. The time would come for me to get up, get dressed, and pretend to be his enemy again.

I'm not sure what being back at Watford will look like for us. I don't know if the rest of the year will have any resemblance to our time together in Hampshire. A million-and-one potential heartbreaks lie ahead of me. But, for now, none of them matter. I'm well-fed, my lungs are full of the fresh morning air, and Simon Snow has shown me kindness.

Rupturing this rare bit of peace, Snow turns the corner into my family's back garden. I've seen this look on him before, a thousand times. There's a madness that washes over him as he prepares to battle some dark, mythical creature. I can tell the instant he spots me because his whole body pivots, readjusting his trajectory. Now, I'm the dark creature Simon Snow is heading for.

Reaching me, Snow grabs my arm and begins pulling, rather aggressively, through the garden and toward the house. I stumble to keep up with his pace. I'm stronger and faster than he is, by a large margin, but I'm too stunned to respond accordingly. Once we reach the back door, he stops, squares his shoulders, and rounds on me. Putting his hands on either side of my collar, Snow wheels me around and presses me roughly up against the back wall.

Intellectually, I know that we've moved past this. Fighting and death threats are surely off the table now, but my body braces for attack. I tense from head to toe and feel for my wand in my sleeve. I have a dozen spells at the tip of my tongue, but none that come to mind would leave him unharmed. I'm starting to get a little terrified and, regrettably, more than a little turned on. When it comes to Snow, the line in my head between afraid and aroused has been fucked for years.

"Right," he says, staring me down with unwavering intensity, "I woke up, and you were gone."

I exhale. "Crowley, Snow. I was about to spell you."

His gaze drops to his hands on my shoulders. He doesn't respond. The look on his face is less murderous and more vulnerable now. Simon Snow is off balance because of me. I could live on this feeling forever.

"Breakfast," I state, a little smug.

He waves this away like draining Bambi is a complete non-issue.

"I woke up, and you were gone, and..." he trails off. He takes a deep breath through his nose, and continues, "and we don't have much time left."

I laugh at that, with my back still pinned snuggly against the wall. "We're roommates, Snow. It's inconvenient, really, how little personal space we have."

"I know that, obviously. But I-" He stops and tries again. "Baz, I just-"

"Spit it out, Snow," I throw at him with a nasty smirk. I shouldn't push, but I've spent the better part of a decade provoking him. It's hard to break the habit.

He shakes his head and raises his chin. There's that strength again. He's powerful and unyielding in the way only Simon Snow can be. I can smell that infernal smoke leaking from him. His magic rises with his resolve. I'm dizzy from it.

"I'm. Not. Ready. Yet," he states, as if each word is its own sentence. It's not up for debate.

He surges forward, going for my mouth.

Hating myself for it, I put a hand up to his chest to hold him back. "Like I said, breakfast. I doubt you fancy the taste of blood."

He squints at me, tilting his head to the side. "I'm not sure that I care?" he draws out with his voice going up at the end. It's a question, not a statement.

"You should care," I say, against my better judgment. "I implore you to care."

He pauses, looking unjustifiably annoyed. "Ok, fine," he concedes, "I'll improvise."

The mention of improvisation conjures up wild images in my head. Instead, he just stands there. He's unmoving, millimeters away from me, and not doing a fucking thing.

Then, slowly, he places his hands flat on my stomach. He looks at them there, his strong hands spread across my full belly. It's intimate. My face, reliably traitorous after feeding, flushes. A lazy smile spreads across his face because he must like me like this: soft and unguarded. He reaches up, snaking his arms under my jacket, and holds me around my waist. He's warm and alive and kind. Simon Snow is vibrant and buzzing with life. It scrambles my brain, being this close.

"I'm glad you ate," he mutters. "Just tell me, next time."

He looks up at me with the most comically stern expression, and I roll my eyes.

The words "next time" are still hanging in the air, full of promise.

"Okay, deal," I whisper, dropping my defenses with him.

Pulling away from the hug, Snow grabs my wrist and presses his lips against my cold palm. Reaching up onto the balls of his feet, he places a gentle kiss on my cheekbone. He traces my eyebrows using his thumbs and puts his hands behind my head. At first, I'm sure he's about to bring his mouth to mine, and honestly, I don't care. I did my best to warn him.

Instead, Snow places a kiss in the space where my earlobe meets my cheek. He continues like this, pressing his lips against my neck and jaw. I'm made of jelly beneath his warm breath and soft tongue. His teeth, those cute little crooked things, hesitantly graze my earlobe. He's taking this tender exchange and twisting it into something filthy. It's disgusting how hard it makes me.

I press my palms flat against the wall. It's gritty and rough, but it keeps me grounded when I feel like I might float the hell away. Over the last day or two, his warm hands have started to wander. Last night, he slid them all the way up my back. His nails dug greedily into my shoulder blades.

Simon Snow has been hungry every day since I met him. I've seen him decimate stacks of scones and blocks of butter without coming up for air. But lately, I'm the one he's hungry for.

My hunger for him - the one that calls for sharp teeth and blood and the end of his whole fucking life - well, that’s harder to ignore than ever. The initial shock of our closeness has subsided, and it has been difficult, at times, to maintain control. Simon is precious, even if he smells like dinner. Luckily, I'm full from my hunt, and his cross sits in his trouser pocket, just in case.

I'm trying to stay silent, but he's turning brazen now, and I evidently have a thing for neck kisses. I keep making these unflattering little breathy sounds, and they seem to spur him on. He shifts subtly, positioning his body closer to mine, and now we're pressed together, completely.

I'm filled with a unique brand of terror. You know, the brand reserved for closet cases born to conservative families. He's about to realize how fucking gay I am - for him, specifically. Like the last 72 hours haven't been enough of a clue. I'm afraid to move, afraid to remind him that I am, in fact, a bloke. It's more apparent than ever in this position. Kissing is one thing, but pressing into me is different than pressing into Wellbelove.

I have to remind myself that Snow has been anything but subtle about his desire over the last few days. He's hard too. Plus, he's gripping my hips and sucking messily on the hinge of my jaw. I objectively knew how another boy would feel, hard against me, but the reality is utterly incomprehensible. I have ached for Simon Snow for my entire adolescent life. And here he is, needy and erect against my hip.

I need more. If I stay still I might burn up from the inside like that poor dragon he slaughtered when we were kids. I remove my hands from their place on the wall. My fingers, taught and overextended, take effort to bend again. Little bits of debris are embedded into my palms. I dust them against the back of Snow's second-hand coat and thread my fingers through his hair. His curls are soft and bouncy. I grip them with both fists.

Snow nods, grunting in agreement, and begins to rock - ever so slightly - against my hips. My eyes start to roll back, and my thoughts are an incomprehensible mess at this point. Our pace turns rapid and clumsy, and it's almost painful, the way we rub against each other. I'm wearing jeans. Denim is a notoriously unforgiving fabric.

"Merlin, Snow. It's 6 on a Sunday," I rasp, sounding grossly affected by what we're doing.

" _Shhhh,_ " he hisses with a small chuckle against the base of my neck. He hasn't stopped kissing me there. I don't want him to.

I look up in a panic, checking to make sure that we're still alone. I'd forgotten where we were, for a minute. The last thing I want is to be spotted by Mordelia. I can hear her shrill voice now, " _Baz is snogging the Chosen One!_ "

But does this even look like snogging? The whole scene probably looks more like Snow is the vampire, and I'm the one in dire need of medical attention.

It's true, though. I might be dying. I'm in my mother's garden with my sworn enemy, and he's sucking on my Adam's apple and getting off against my hip. I'm going to turn into literal stone, and nobody will know what to do with my statuesque remains. The bloody gardeners will have to sidestep my rigid corpse.

Simon is coming now, with his mouth, hot and open, panting on my cheek. I could feel it building, feel the way his movements started to become erratic. He kept making these sweet, desperate sounds. My cheek is damp from his breath, and his body slumps into mine. He's completely unable to stand on his own feet. What a fucking disaster this boy is.

I come as well, of course. My hand found its way under the collar of his shirt, and his skin is so warm there. Rutting up against Simon Snow in the back garden is the most erotic moment of my entire life.

We pull apart, out of breath and sticky. Simon looks down at his trousers.

"I didn't think this through," he says through a grimace.

"You never do, Snow," I say, ducking forward to kiss his temple.

I take out my wand and **Clean as a whistle** us both just as the door opens to my right. And, unfortunately, it's my father, Malcolm Grimm, stepping out into the back garden.

"Right, Basilton, we should be going," he says, before he even sees us.

And then he does see us. The silence is palpable. I've managed to compose myself, looking unaffected as always, but Snow looks like a bloody lunatic. I didn't even kiss him, and yet, his lips are flushed and swollen.

Malcolm nods his head once and walks back into the house.

This is, truly, an unfortunate situation - even for a life as unfortunate as mine. Simon looks mortified and ready to bolt. I bet he'd do it, too. He'd run the entire way back Watford, if he thought it would help.

I sigh, clapping a hand to his shoulder, and say, "Come on, then. Let's go. Stiff upper lip and all that."

After a brief stop upstairs to collect our things, Snow and I are in my father's car, hoping the world puts us out of this misery.

The ride back to Watford is eerily silent. I have superior hearing, being a vampire and all, but all I can hear are the tires against the wet gravel outside. I watch my father as he changes gears. Daphne was the one to teach me how to drive. I'm watching how easy this for him and feeling bitter. He never offered to teach me. Sometimes, I think he avoids bonding with me more than anything in this world.

I look up at Snow in the rear-view mirror. He's sitting in the back seat, pretty as ever. I don't know how the most powerful mage on the planet manages to look so pretty, but he does.

When I look back at my father, I see, for the first time, that his whole "wanting is disgraceful" philosophy is nothing but a charade. Surely, he wants something. We hardly talk, and even I can think of things that must keep him up at night, craving.

He must want a normal son. A son who isn't queer. A son who isn't a literal vampire. A son who doesn't snog his political enemies in the garden.

Most of all, he wants my mother back. I know he loves Daphne and the kids, but he's not whole, like he must've been. His other half was ripped from him, and you don't recover from that. He hardly mentions her, but that doesn't mean anything. Sometimes, absence means more than words ever could.

I decide, right here in this awkward car, to stop hating myself for wanting things. I'm taking a page out of Snow's book. I, too, can push recklessly ahead for the things I want.

"Snow and I are dating," I blurt. I never blurt, as a rule, but Simon is having an _appalling_ influence on my communication skills.

I steal another glance at the back seat. Snow looks like he swallowed a whole egg - all red and bug-eyed and in need of resuscitation.

My father's fingers tense and release on the wheel. It's the only discernible reaction to my words. He's checking the mirrors now, preparing to change lanes. The rhythmic clicking of the turn signal fills the silence in the car.

I know he's surprised by how forthright I'm being. We don't do this. We don't speak directly about anything. The Grimm-Pitch way is to bat around the issue until everything is half-said - and then leave it at that.

"I've gathered," my father says, right when I thought he'd never speak again.

"Right," I respond. I'm ready to be a proper Pitch boy and resume a stony silence.

Snow and I didn't discuss the subject of dating, not exactly. We talked about wanting more of "this" - unable to articulate what "this" actually entails. Snow doesn't have a way with words; that much has always been clear. But I can do this, for the both of us. Our whole relationship has been _hopelessly_ one-sided for years, anyway.

Malcolm surprises me then, stating, "I want you to be happy, Basilton."

It's heavy in the way his words never are with me. My chest aches in the way it never does with him.

Feeling unsteady and needing to invoke a bit of drama, I put my sunglasses on, lean my seat back, and pretend to settle in for a quick nap.

"I don't know about happy," I say. "I always thought I'd live a life with a bit more style."

I don't look back at Snow again. I don't want to see how he's handling my unilateral decision that we're together, officially. And honestly, if he disagrees with it, he can bloody well fight me.


	3. The Desk

This room has always been a place of violence for Simon and me. Hatred and jealousy and deep, unwavering paranoia propagated here. The anathema ensured our survival within these walls, but it did nothing to exercise the space of the demons that possessed it. Since childhood, The Chosen One and I have been pitted against each other by the entire world of mages. We were their champions and this room - this damned fucking canker of a room - was the stage. 

This room was a cage. It was the silent promise of a short, cruel life for us both.

After my father dropped us off at the gate, Simon Snow and I began the pilgrimage back to our home at the top of the tower. I spelled the door open, and we stood there, shoulder-to-shoulder and unmoving. The door swung out into the empty room, and all I saw was the carnage of the last seven years between us. I saw the floorboards, soaked in our blood, and the ceiling, bathed in bits of our ragged flesh.

It took guts to be together within these walls. But mostly, it took time.

Simon was as brave and foolhardy as ever. Following his lead was my only choice. The room needed to be reintroduced to us, this new version of Simon and Baz. We were boyfriends, no longer enemies. The cancer of our past could be excised, day-by-day, with one kindness to each other at a time.

Those few days in Hampshire moved with a wild, reckless speed. It was as if someone sat on the remote, leaving us stuck in fast forward and hurtling past every obstacle. And suddenly, back at Watford, life resumed its usual pace. I didn't know how to touch him. I didn't know how to reach out and press my lips against his. I didn't know how to let him see me in the face of all that I have been. You'd think that once you get off together, the rest would fall into place.

We had to carve a new way of being into the space. We were finally alone, but timid to a degree that we never were in Hampshire. A lot of the old rules were still enforced. We changed in the bathroom and slept in our respective beds. At night, we'd crawl out from under the covers and drop down to sit together in the small space between our bed frames. We felt safe there, in that little pocket on the floor. Safe to talk honestly and to reach out earnestly. Those first few weeks were filled with closed-mouthed kisses, gentle hands, and sickly sweet words whispered into the quiet night.

Eventually, life sped up again, and we were overcome with the hunger we experienced that day in the garden. Dev and Niall took great pleasure in teasing us about the amount of time Snow and I spent in our room together. January gave way to February, and Simon's tongue had taken up permanent residence in my mouth. The weather was bitterly cold, and he let me keep the window shut. We'd meet at the end of our beds and writhe together until we came. We did this with the frequency that only two teen boys could manage. Our clothes stayed on, but silk pajamas feel better than jeans do when you're rubbing up against a boy like Simon.

We spent time with friends, too. Well, we spent time with Simon's friends, mostly. Dating Simon Snow means dating the whole mad lot of them. 

"I'm a package deal," he stated, dragging me to the breakfast table. 

I stood there, holding hands with Snow and pretending to be anything other than terrified. He declared our relationship like a challenge to everyone within earshot. I dare anyone to challenge Simon Snow when he's made up his mind. I tried, for years, and never dented his resolve. 

Bunce called us "impossible" and "absolute fools, really" and returned to spelling a pile of scones in front of her. She acted as if the news was beneath her, a total waste of her time. She also made room for me at the table.

"Sit, Basilton," she insisted while handing Simon his heated plate. I obeyed. I sat there, I watched my boyfriend shove scones into his gaping mouth, and I thought about how lucky he was to have Bunce in his life.

Wellbelove was there too, but she was fuming. It must've stung, seeing us together. She didn't speak to us for days and left every room we entered with a dramatic flip of her hair. To be fair, though, she was just annoyed to hear that another piece of this world was all about Simon. 

We're bonded that way, me and Wellbelove. We are forever inconvenienced by the perpetual Simon-ness of it all.

It's mid-March now, and I'm sitting at my desk, staring at a stack of manuscripts. I'm attempting to memorize 100 years of obscure literary history on the off chance that it'll be useful on our next exam. I'm going overboard, I know it, but I need to beat Bunce - now more than ever. I enjoy the girl too much for my own comfort. I'd enjoy her a lot more if she came in second. Friendship, like most things, is easier for me to stomach when standing on higher ground.

Today, the sun is shining for the first time all year. It's still chilly, but Snow is like a tree; his branches reach for the sun even in the gloomiest climates. He's out playing on the pitch with Wellbelove while Bunce reads in the grass nearby. I'd bet my family's entire estate that Agatha gave up to nap in the sun. Bunce probably spelled the ball so Simon could keep playing. I've seen it before. Simon, playing alone, like a puppy in the sprinklers. 

With a bang, the door swings open. Simon barrels in, kicking his trainers and socks off into a pile on the floor. This is precisely the sort of behavior that used to drive me mad. Turns out, it still drives me mad. But Simon Snow is everything I've ever wanted, even when he's irritating the hell of out me.

Simon craves the sun, and I crave him. My branches are continually reaching for him.

I'm pretending to study when Simon walks up to my desk. He doesn't need to know that I spent the afternoon grossly introspective and mostly unproductive. Never one to be ignored, Simon stretches an arm out across my desk and begins shoving my work to the side.

"Honestly, Snow," I sigh while rushing to collect my papers before the pages buckle. I roll my chair to the drawer at my right and place the stack inside. Once the desk is clear, Simon hops onto it with a wild grin. Playing in the sun makes my boyfriend giddy. He's vibrant and happy and alive. It's infectious, even for someone as far from alive and vibrant as I am.

His cheeks are pink from exertion, and his bronze curls stick to his damp skin. He's wearing a white t-shirt and the red cotton shorts he found at the care home last summer. Chomsky knows why he'd pick up discarded clothing and claim it as his own. The name of some Normal school's football team is embossed in white on the thigh. The lettering is cracked with age and barely legible. 

"How long did Wellbelove last?" I ask him.

"Five minutes," he shrugs. "Doesn't matter. It's brilliant today. You missed out."

"I never claimed to be fun," I counter.

"You're fun. You're better than fun," he tells me, with more kindness than I deserve. I want to kiss the spaces between each of his silly teeth.

Simon's legs are covered in soft golden hair. His thighs are plump where they're pressed up against the edge of the desk. There are freckles and moles that I have never seen before, peaking out from under the hem of his shorts.

"Did Bunce employ you to distract me? Is she trying to weaken her enemy?" 

I am distracted. I am weak.

"I thought you were _my_ enemy," he pouts. His brow is furrowed, and his bottom lip shines with spit.

"I am, Snow. Don't worry."

He's still smiling, light and bubbly. I want him to stay this way forever.

He reaches under the collar of his shirt and fishes the gold cross out from around his neck. His eyes remain on mine as he unclasps the necklace and tosses it to the end of the desk. The metal chain clanks and skids across the wooden surface. The sound is sharp in the silent room. 

Simon hooks his foot around the arm of my chair and pulls me closer to him. The floorboards creak as he wheels me over, positioning me between his knobby knees. I gaze up at him, and I have never felt so plain before. I need a piece of this bright, shiny Simon.

I stand up from my chair and touch his cheek. His skin is tacky from sweat, and his freckles are more pronounced from his time out in the sun. His lips are chapped and salty, and we kiss in that deep, lazy way that we've adopted lately.

My hands skim the bottom of his shirt, and I dip my fingers under it. He's soft and warm. I think of memory foam mattresses and pastry dough when I press my fingertips into the flesh of his sides. Simon is always strong, but lately, his muscles are coated in a thin layer of fat. I love Simon when he's buttery. He's solid and powerful and still tender to the touch.

Simon reaches behind his head and pulls his shirt up and over with one hand. I saw him do this when we were kids. I knew, in that exact moment, that I was queer. I'd never seen something so distinctly "boy" before. I became self-conscious about removing my shirts, sure that I could never execute it the way he did. My shirts all came with buttons, anyway.

Simon's chest is wide and inviting. There's the lightest dusting of hair between his pecs, and I want to taste it. His nipples look soft, and I want to place them between my teeth.

I position my hands under his thighs and heave his hips toward me, almost upending him. His palms slap against the surface of the desk as he throws them behind himself for support. I pull him in closer and bring our hips together. Rubbing against each other in the garden was blissful oblivion, but this is how we do it now: Simon's body angled into mine, his legs clutched behind my back.

He leans his head back, and I watch him swallow, all thick and showy. I duck forward to reach his throat and begin to suck on it softly. My lips are barely moving, and I'm pushing the tip of my tongue into his skin. 

I used to suck my thumb as a child. Fiona would mock me endlessly. Eventually, my father's friend sat me down and explained that children who suffer trauma often develop self-soothing behaviors. I was six. She didn't explain what trauma was or how it related to me, but it was clear that thumb sucking was weak. Even then, the thought of weakness sickened me.

It doesn't feel weak now, though, the way I'm suckling the delicate skin on my boyfriend's throat. I enjoy soothing myself this way. I wonder how many childhood methods of self-soothing turn into the deviant behaviors of adults. It's not important, though. Simon is. His skin tastes sharp, like salt and vinegar crisps.

Using his arms as leverage, Simon presses himself up and into me. His wild internal thermostat makes him blistering against my cold, undead hands. His pulse races. Blood rushes beneath the surface of his skin. It's erotic, and I'm lost in the feeling against my tongue. I'm totally fucking lost in it.

The feeling is, admittedly, too much. I pull away just as my fangs pop. The sound always reminds me of retainers being removed from someone's disgusting, spit-filled mouth.

I plop down into my chair, defeated by my own cursed anatomy. I run my hands through my hair, pushing it out of my face. I huff out the most dramatic breath. I'm pissed, and I'm bratty, and - most of all - I'm disappointed in myself. Lately, being a vampire is torturously inconvenient.

Simon, on the other hand, is cocky as ever. I watch as he grabs the cross and secures it around his neck. Simon is used to this. We've been in a holding pattern for weeks because of it. He scoots himself further onto the desk and leans his torso against the wall. His shoulders seem to go on forever. They're broader than shoulders have any right to be. I want him to crush me. 

I keep thinking rabid half-thoughts like that. He's so beautiful my brain can't keep up. These days, everything that runs through my head is lost somewhere on the spectrum between hopelessly in love and criminally perverted. He'd run away, I think, if he knew.

Simon is sitting there in nothing but those ridiculous red shorts. His left foot is propped on the desk, and his right leg hangs off the side. His hips are spread wide, like those prats on the tube who take up two seats all to themselves. You'd hate them for being inconsiderate arseholes if your mouth wasn't watering.

And my mouth is watering because all I can see in this whole damned world is how his erection looks in those red shorts. Feeling him against me is thrilling, but seeing him in this state is entirely different. His balls look heavy and full. The fabric is straining, and it devastates me.

We're intimate, but we don't do this. We keep our eyes above the belt. As much as I want to, we don't gawk at each other's bodies. It's a line that neither of us has been bold enough to cross. But here I am, looking now, and I cannot look away. Simon knows what I'm staring at. I'm not being discrete.

He closes his eyes, scrubs a hand down his face, and breathes deeply. "Sorry, sorry. Just give me a minute to cool down."

He thinks he needs to apologize. Like the sight of him is a burden I don't want to carry. The room is painfully silent. It makes me itch.

"Show me," I say - out of fucking nowhere. I just said it. I don't know why.

Simon's tongue, fat and wet, glistens in his wide-open mouth. I don't need magic to stun him. All I need are stupid, stupid words.

"Show me," I say again, unwillingly. I'd like to stop talking - permanently. I'd like to throw myself out the window and give myself over to those retched merewolves.

His eyes widen. "You sure, Baz?" he asks skeptically. 

He thinks I've gone mental, which is fair. I'm not the one who does this. Simon has always pulled us into new, uncharted territory, not me. It's never me.

"I'm sure," I lie. I'm not sure at all, but still, I pretend that I am. I might as well act confident now that I've said what I've said. Now that I've said it twice.

There's this feeling that passes between us lately. It's lusty and bold. It's more adult than we're used to. I feel it in this room. It's suffocating me. My brain is deprived of oxygen, and I cannot stop myself or my traitorous fucking mouth.

For some reason, I continue speaking. 

"I've wanked to the thought of you for years." 

And this right here, this single sentence, is the worst thing that has ever passed my lips. I've spewed a lot of cruel, ill-advised words in my time, mostly directed at Snow, but this - this is what I regret most.

I suppose the damage has been done. There's no way to walk it back, not after that. My only options are to disappear or to lean into this disaster. I remind myself that I'm Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. I am the last remaining heir of the most potent magical lineage in our world. I can summon fire with my fists. I can do anything.

"Show it to me, Snow," I repeat again, like a chant.

I don't sound powerful. I sound needy - and gross.

I'm a wounded beast, trapped and afraid, injured by my own stupidity. I'm mortified, but I might have broken him, so maybe he'll just die before I have to face this new reality. He's still staring at me. I can see the thoughts churning like thick butter in that perfect head of his.

"Don't call me that," he says, obviously irritated. He's so pretty when he's irritated.

"Call you what?" I ask. I know what he means, I always do.

"Call me Simon, and I'll consider it."

His words are playful and edgy and electrifyingly hot. I kinda want to eat him, and I kinda want to throw myself out the window, still. But that was encouraging. I can do this. I can finish what I started. 

"Show it to me, _Simon_." I put as much emphasis on his name as I can. 

“Please,” I add because this is awkward and maybe politeness will help.

I thought he'd laugh at that. I thought the spell we're under would break. I thought he'd grin and tease me and tell me that we're not ready.

Instead, he nods slowly and says, "Yeah, okay."

Crowley. 

And then, Simon Snow, savior of the magical world, begins to lower the waistband of those infernal lost-and-found shorts. They're snug, and he has to lift his hips to stretch them over his erection. He tucks the fabric beneath his balls and looks up at me.

I'd hate to know what my face is doing right now. His face is a brighter shade of red than I have ever seen it.

Simon's dick is flushed and curved in toward his belly. His foreskin is stretched taught, and he's thickest just below the head. Honestly, I may be mad, but all I can think about is how Simon has the dick of a construction worker. Like the dick of a man who does heavy labor with strong, calloused hands. Like a man who can talk the pants off girls in the local chavvy bar. It's blunt and lacking elegance and sexy as hell. I want to brush my fingers against the soft curls around the base of him.

I don't know what I did to deserve this life, but I think I'm finally starting to see its merit.

I haven't regained control of my mouth yet, and I share all of this with him, even the construction worker part. He laughs, too loudly for the moment, and tells me to stop insulting him.

"I'm not," I insist, because I'm really not trying to. 

"You're perfect, Simon. So painfully perfect," I add, because he really is.

Simon blushes. Compliments are difficult for him under ordinary circumstances, but these circumstances are far from ordinary. He's looking at me, all pink and heavy-lidded. His tongue is peaking out between his teeth. He's a bit drunk on it, the praise I gave him.

"Should I stop? Or sh-should I, um," he trails off. He's apparently at a complete loss for how to finish that sentence.

"Keep going," is all I can manage. We're not having much luck with words right now.

He gives me a small smile. He's sweet, and I want to cherish him forever. 

Then, with a complete lack of sweetness, he puts his palm to his lips, gathers saliva in his mouth, and spits it into his hand.

"Charming," I say.

He tells me to shut up and begins to stroke himself. In all my years of fantasizing about this boy, I never thought to picture this. Simon Snow is masturbating on top of my school desk, just because I asked him to. Every single fantasy I ever had feels hollow and cheap next to what's happening in front of me.

His fist is slick. It's covered in spit and the syrupy pre-come that's leaking down his knuckles. He strokes with a slight twist of his wrist at the head. Occasionally, he stops and grips firmly at the base like he's going to strangle himself. I break a bit, inside, every time he does this.

Simon gets all splotchy when he's aroused. He gets twitchy, too. It's a whole production that I'm used to feeling beneath my body. But this - this is different. I'm an observer now, not a participant. His torso jiggles a bit as he begins to move his hand with more urgency. I'm thankful again for the Watford kitchen and the scones Bunce spells for him. He's dense and a tiny bit plump, and I like to watch him bounce.

He keeps making these small tortured noises. His face is all screwed up like he's taking an exam. I'm tempted to reach up and place a yellow, number two pencil between his gritted teeth. Everything is a struggle for Simon, even wanking.

The room is filled with those tiny whimpers and obscene squelching sounds from his fist. Simon is so open and bare. He’s brave in a way that I am completely unable to be.

I want to grab him. I want to bury into him like hands digging into cake. I want to feel the frosting between my fingers.

Simon leans his head against the wall, his neck damp and delicious. I can smell his blood and feel the heat radiating off of him, even from here. My fangs pop for the second time today, and I can see Simon's smile as he stares up into the ceiling. The fool enjoys pushing me to this point. He has no self-preservation at all.

I'm familiar with the sight and sounds of Simon Snow orgasming. I know he bites down on his bottom lip, and I know he makes these precious grunts. But now I know what it looks like when the come pulses out of his dick. It is _graphic_ , and I am here for it.

He sits there for for a few seconds with his eyes closed. And then the laughing starts. It's the crazed, full-bodied laugh of a man who's lost the plot. I'm also insane now, so I'm fine with it.

"Holy fucking hell," he breathes out once the giggles subside.

I love it when he curses like a Normal. I always have, even when I hated him.

"Baz, this would've been less awkward at night."

He's sitting back, all loose and languid on my desk. His hand is filthy with come. I want to lick it.

"I have excellent eyesight at night, Snow." I remind him.

"Simon," he corrects, still grinning.

"Yeah, well, I have excellent eyesight at night, even if your name is Simon."

He tries very hard not to smile at that. Then, he holds out his hand, the one covered in come, and says, "here."

I think, for a second, that he's offering it as a present - like he knew what I wanted to do with it. But I know that's not what's happening. I didn't tell him what I was thinking, and I don't plan to. I have a mental list of 20,000 different things I want to do with Simon, but that is not one he needs to know about.

"Please," he whines, "you know I might spell this whole school clean if I try."

"Oh, what a tragedy that would be," I say while pointing over my head to the messy pile he left by the door. 

I pull my wand out and spell him clean. It's a shame, really, watching his hand go from sticky to spotless. My mind is hopelessly disgusting, and that is also a shame.

He thanks me while grabbing his shirt and tossing it back on. He's still on my desk. He's probably not moving any time soon.

"Okay, you're interrupting my studies. So, up you go." I say, sitting straighter in my chair.

"I wasn't planning on staying here all day," he tells me.

"Up you go, Simon," I repeat.

"But aren't you going to, you know," he asks while waving in the direction of my lap.

"No, Snow. Not everyone can afford to spend the day masturbating," I respond, knowing that it was my idea, not his.

"I hate you," he whines. He climbs off the desk, rolling his eyes, and pulls his shorts back up with a little hop.

"I hate you so much sometimes," he says while leaning over to lick a wet stripe up the side of my face.

I push him away playfully, pretending like I don't want him to lick me like that.

"Anathema!" he calls out, feigning indignation. He's already stepping into the ensuite bathroom, and I suppose he's going to shower. It's a good idea, considering.

Once the door is closed, I drop my head to the desk. My forehead makes a clunk as it hits the wood. I keep my head bowed and eyes shut. I listen to the sound of the water as it rushes through the ancient pipes. The room is stuffy now, filled with shower steam, the smell of sweat, and Snow's smokey magic.

I pull my head back up, straighten the crease of my trousers, and reach for the drawer holding my work. I'm achingly hard, and my head is full of mushed peas, but I need to at least appear to be studying when Simon returns.

This was the dirtiest afternoon of my life, and I feel warmed thoroughly from it. It's more apparent than ever that Simon Snow is the most beautiful, magical person in this entire world. He would be, even without his Chosen One powers. Simon is with me, and he is willing to exist openly and without reservation. It is a wonder to be near. 

I wish that I could be as unguarded with him as he is with me. I want a lot of things in this world, but this is what I want most.

This room used to haunt me, and in a way, it still does. I'm trapped in here with the boy who loves me, and I'm trapped in here with myself.


	4. The Door

Today was the perfect lazy Saturday in spring, and Simon ruined it with a visit to the goatherd. After months of delaying, he finally caved to the rising guilt.

"Todays the day," he announced, getting up to lace his shoes and grab a jumper. He glanced out the window and set the clothing back down. The sun was shining. There was no need for layers.

I wanted to say to "have fun," but instead, I said, "I'll come." I regret that decision now.

Simon and I sat in that dim, musty barn for longer than I anticipated. The air stunk of hay soaked in goat piss. The rug beneath us was matted and damp. The goats kept trying to gnaw at my boots. I abandoned all manners and tucked my feet onto the seat of my chair.

I must've looked absurd with my knees pulled to my chin, curled up like a child. The floor was lava, as far as I was concerned. But then again, so were the walls, and the food she offered us, and the fucking goats themselves.

The barn was depressing, and so was the goatherd. Ebb's only way of living is with her full, unflattering self on display. Even the most inane topics left her a sick, sobbing mess. Her nose ran, her words came out cracked, and her eyes were red and sore. Ebb is a faucet for her emotions. I am the cork jammed into a bottle. She is the broken pipe.

Her magic could rip the pavement from half the streets in London, given a chance, but she does nothing with it. She is a pile of snot and squandered potential. Ebb is everything I was taught to loathe.

The woman was also _draping_ herself across my boyfriend. She kept leaning on him and running her mucky hands through his perfect hair. I wanted to bite those hands. I wanted to rip them off at the wrists.

I was miserable, but I could see the profound connection between Simon and Ebb. They don't talk often, not anymore, but the bond remains. That wretched barn and that pathetic woman have provided Simon with years of solace.

She was also nice to me during our visit. I don't know why. I've never thought or said a single nice thing about her. I've been bred to step on people like Ebb.

She kept talking about my mother. She relayed stories of unending patience and kindness and understanding when Ebb needed it most. She told me my mother would be proud of what I've become. That I am a gift to her legacy. The goatherd dug her grubby fingers directly into that deep, rotting wound in my chest. Her nails were caked in dirt and now so was my damn heart.

Ebb kept offering comfort that did not comfort me. She touched my cheek, and I felt sick. She tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, and the room started to spin. Ebb touches Simon, and I want to bite. Ebb touches me, and I want to vomit on the floor.

We're leaving the barn now, finally. The sun is just beginning to set. It's a brilliant contrast to the dank den of discomfort I escaped from. The horizon is awash with vibrant pinks and oranges, like sherbet mixing into a dark, clotted sky.

I'd like a fag right now. I don't smoke, not regularly, but it would be sobering to taste tobacco and burnt paper on my tongue. According to Fiona, you're not supposed to inhale the way I do. You're not supposed to breathe it in and hold it tight. I don't care what I'm supposed to do. I enjoy allowing the smoke to rake through my lungs like steel wool. It's nice to feel something other than the unshakeable ache that resides in my chest.

Simon keeps glancing at me, dedicated, as always, to decoding my mood. I don't want to be decoded. I don't give him enough credit for how perceptive he is. There's a particular brand of intelligence that has fueled his madness for years. His smile begins to slip the longer he looks at me.

Today made him happy. I shouldn't be such an asshole about it.

I make a concerted effort to notice the world around me. I steady myself with the honey-colored light from the setting sun and the smell of damp grass beneath our feet. The air is filled with a cacophony of cries from the birds above us. I feel a bit like crying with them.

Today was a glimpse of who Simon Snow used to be. I saw that little boy, buckling under the weight of a thousand tragedies and the responsibility of a thousand men. It's hard to think about him back then, small and rawboned and yearning for connection.

We talk about it sometimes, the loneliness of his life before Watford. I have always felt alone, as if born into an endless vacuum. But, in reality, I was surrounded by family. I was part of a greater community. My family never understood me, but they were there. They were emotionally constipated, but they were present.

Simon's loneliness was not open to interpretation. The boy was simply alone. He was bludgeoned, daily, with the blunt and brutal instrument of isolation.

Words are difficult for Simon, but speech was nearly impossible for him back then. Years of neglect rendered him voiceless, except for the broken bits he'd sputter and curse when I provoked him. Somehow, in that poor excuse for a home, Simon could talk, and Ebb could listen. Or she could talk, and he could just be. Ebb was there for him, with openness and staggering authenticity, in a way that I never was. She was there for him in a way that I am now struggling to be.

I am trying, though. I am battling against my every instinct. I want to be for Simon what he is for me. I yearn to be his Sword of Mages. I am by his side at all times, but when I am called - when I am needed - I struggle to place myself in his hands. Our relationship is a trust fall that I keep chickening out of.

We're home now, and I am filled with a singular purpose. The poor boy deserves happiness more than anyone. I'm going to be a part of that happiness for a change. I’m going to cling to him like a leech. I’m going to show him that I care.

I'm also suddenly really horny. I've developed a pavlovian response to being in this room. It's a massive relief to be alone together again. I'm painfully hard because of it.

I'm driven by a need to care for him, but I am limited in my ability to do so. I'm most comfortable with "Simon and Baz" when it's is more Simon and less Baz. We still kiss for hours on end. We still rut against each other until we come. But now, after that day on the desk, I have found my favorite way to be with Simon. We can be close, and I can stay safe on the sidelines.

Once inside our room, I use my body to herd Simon until his shoulders are pressed against the closed door. His eyes are bright. He knows what I am after.

"Your turn," I tell him, putting my hands on either side of his head against the wood.

He laughs, "My turn again? That's funny. You think it'd be yours by now."

"You'd think," I say dryly, looking him up and down. I love this game we play because I can act with the confidence that I am, in reality, sorely lacking.

He hasn't moved yet. I lean in closer, whispering, "Simon, I'm impatient," in his ear.

He shivers a bit.

"Yeah, okay. I'm workin' on it," he says, beginning to stroke himself over his trousers.

He tucks two fingers between the buttons of my shirt and grazes his knuckles across the skin of my stomach. I'm never undressed around Simon, but his hands still manage to touch me here. A day doesn't go by without Simon Snow putting his warm, rough hands on my belly. He likes it. I don't know why.

"Ready?" I ask, my lips still pressed against his ear.

"Yep, go time," he nods, undoing his buckle.

I take a few steps back. Simon's fingers slip out from between my buttons. He huffs in disappointment.

I stand about a meter away from him, resting my hands in my pockets. I used to glare at him like this, with a raised brow and a harsh look in my eyes. It was unmitigated desire that I passed off as hatred back then. It used to infuriate Simon, but now it makes him squirm.

He blushed like mad when he first undressed for me, but he's not shy anymore. There is no fanfare. Once his zip is down, his dick is out and bobbing in the air.

Simon is wearing his Watford uniform: wool trousers, dress shirt, and a striped tie around his neck. He's a cartoon character, like Mickey Mouse and those stupid white gloves. This is our last year at school, and I am going to miss seeing his uniform. This is my Simon. This is how I see him when I close my eyes.

His belt hangs open on both sides, and he's using his free hand to hold back the untucked ends of his shirt. He's stroking himself, his hand wet with spit. Simon's performance has become messier and more reckless than ever. He clears the back of his throat and spits into his hand, coating himself with another thick layer. It's gross, and it's hot. I bet this is how he looks when he's alone.

I used to obsess over the idea of Simon Snow masturbating. I spent the entire summer before 6th year fantasizing about it. I'd imagine Snow alone and furiously wanking to pictures of Wellbelove. My fictional Simon salivated only for blonde hair, brown eyes, and feminine pedigree.

Even in my fantasies, Simon wanted nothing to do with me. I'd picture his disgust with me, and I'd get off on that, too. Everything in my head was dark those days. That summer was filled with nothing but my own semen and self-hatred.

It's a crazy world, though, because here he is, gripping himself and mumbling my name. This shouldn't be enough for him. Simon should want more than this, more than a boyfriend out of arm's reach.

I asked him one time why he was okay with it.

He shrugged and said, "I like it when you watch me."

After a beat of silence, he looked up from his feet and added, "We belong together, Baz. I'm not fussed about the details."

He was never taught to expect much from life. He doesn't know to ask for more than the scraps that I am offering. Simon Snow is everything precious in this world. I am just a pervert peeking through the curtains.

I am a pervert, though. I can't deny that it thrills me to watch him from a distance. He's rushing now, trying to catch up to that feeling that's building inside of him. Every jerk of his arm is met with a nasty clunk against the old wooden door. _Clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk._ It's all earnest enthusiasm, no grace.

Simon is trying to rid his body of a demon. I am burning inside, watching it happen. I am hard, and I am overcome with affection for this human in front of me.

I step closer to him and place my hands around his face. My grip is firm, and his little cheeks are squished between my palms.

"You're so good for me, Simon. You are always so good."

My eyes are wet, and my voice is shaking, but I keep praising him because I cannot bear to stop. Simon is jerking off, and I'm telling him that he is good, that he is everything to me.

The bizarre reality of sex, it turns out, is that there is room for many simultaneous and contradictory experiences. You can laugh and get off. You can be mad and get off. And, apparently, you can make a big fool of yourself and get off too.

Simon is staring at me like I am something special. He's staring at me like he's about to fucking burst.

I tuck my forehead into the crook of his neck and stare down at the space between our bodies. His fist pumps between our hips. I study the veins that run down the length of him. I'm mesmerized by his foreskin shifting back and forth across the ridge of his swollen head.

I want to feel the width of him between my lips, to feel an ache within my jaw. I want to be used so completely that I am rendered useless to anyone but him.

I want tears to run down my face and spit to coat my chin. I want to bury him in my throat until all I can think and all I can feel and all I can breathe is Simon.

This will never happen. It's just another fantasy. Nobody sticks their dick into the mouth of a boy with fangs. My mouth is a weapon I cannot wield. Oral sex is a risk we cannot take.

I step back again as Simon starts to climax. His free hand, still holding his shirt, clutches and claws at the fabric. He comes in uneven spurts across his fist, like icing warm cinnamon rolls. Closing his eyes, he makes a loud, unintelligible sound and sags against the wooden door. He's an old man collapsing on the couch after a long day at the factory.

Every single time Simon ejaculates, a war rages in my head between what I want and what I am ashamed of. During the last few weeks, I have watched milky white come spill down his fist, over and over again. All I ever want is to taste it.

I reach for his wrist, still wrapped around his dick, and tug it toward me. I love Simon. I want to show him that. I'm brave enough, in this moment, to do so. I don't think love is traditionally shown this way, but it's what I can manage.

I bring his hand up to my mouth and stop to look at him.

"Wha- wait, really?" he asks. His eyes are open now.

I look down at his hand again. Simon comes a lot. It's like the thick, starchy liquid from poorly prepared rice.

"I eat rats, Snow. I have a high tolerance for gross."

I'm pretending this isn't huge for me, that it isn't something I've wanted for weeks. It's a step that I am scared to take, but I am going to take it. I am choosing to add a little of myself back into this equation.

I stick my tongue out and lick the back of his hand across his knuckles. I search his face for disgust, but all I see is lust. I bow my head, tilt his hand toward my mouth, and slurp the mess pooling in the divot between his thumb and forefinger.

The whole experience reminds me of tossing back oysters in their shells. Simon doesn't taste like the ocean, though. He's slimy, salty, and bitter. There's a subtle soapy taste in the back of my throat. It's new, and it's foreign, and it's so fucking good.

I feel deranged, and I've never been happier with my choices. I can't drink my boyfriend's blood, but this I can do.

I let go of his hand, and Simon stares at it in silence. He turns it over, back and forth. He spots a fat drop that still clings to the pad of his thumb. Time is not running its normal pace. This moment is sticky and stretches on forever.

Simon moves his hand back out to me and presses his come-covered thumb onto my tongue like a communion wafer. I want to fall to my knees in supplication. I want to commit blasphemy with The Chosen One.

I wrap my lips around him and wipe it clean with my tongue. He begins to pull his thumb away, and I bite down on it gently. I trap it with my teeth. I meet his eyes and sink my mouth further until my bottom lip is pressed into his palm.

I close my eyes and start a gentle, rhythmic suction. His thumb rocks in and out between my lips. His nail bumps against the back of my front teeth. I am a rescue kitten being bottle-fed. I could come from this alone.

I'm fully dressed and more exposed than I have ever been.

I want to stay like this forever, but I pull back and let his thumb slip from between my lips.

"Baz," is all he says. His voice is ragged.

The silence in the room is heavy. Simon is half-hard again, and it makes me throb. I don't know how to transition from this. I don't know how to go from sucking your boyfriend's thumb back to life as usual.

I don't flounder for long because Simon solves this problem by opening his stupid mouth.

"Better or worse than rats?"

I glare at him.

"Better than merewolves, right? I gotta be," he continues with an obnoxious grin. Simon went from post-coital wreck to smug little bastard in two seconds.

I don't respond to that either. I'm thankful for the levity, but it's easier to pretend like he's a nuisance.

He leans into me, raising himself onto his toes, and kisses my temple.

"You know I love you, right?" He asks.

"Yes, Snow."

"Good," he says, pulling back.

He grabs my hand and squeezes it. I feel like a little kid.

"I love you too, Simon," I tell him, squeezing his hand in return.

"I know, Baz. I know."

Simon tucks himself back into his trousers, and I excuse myself to take a shower. I tell him I need to wash the stink of goats off my skin. It's true, but mostly I need to be alone. He's used to this, me pulling away as soon as we are done. It's part of our routine by now.

Once inside the shower, I turn the tap to the hottest setting I can handle. My skin is ice cold under the boiling water pumping through the pipes.

For the second time today, I curl up with my knees tucked beneath my chin. My long legs are pretzeled in the cramped space, and I ignore the water running down my erection. I don't make a habit of sitting in the bathtub, but I am raw and exhausted tonight. I am standing at the precipice of adulthood, and I feel smaller and less equipped than ever.

The showerhead is old, and the spray is an uneven mix of fine mist, sharp darts of water, and fat droplets dribbling out. All I can hear is the sound of the shower. All I can feel is the water cascading down my skin. My ghostly complexion appears almost flushed against the bright white porcelain around me.

Every time I feel prepared for this life, I am dragged back under. Trauma is a trick party candle that never goes out. I huff, and I puff, and the flame is never extinguished.

Apparently, kisses from Boy Wonder aren't enough to undo 19 years of accumulated damage. I am weighed down by a lifetime of baggage, by a collection of traumas passed down like cursed family heirlooms. I am carrying the weight of myself and everyone who has come before me.

My relationship with Simon has been illuminating. I've realized that there's a certain type of narcissism that comes from feeling broken. It's easy to believe that you are the center of life's tragedies, but I don't believe it anymore. Simon is brave, but he is also a boy broken and taped together. My father is nothing but a child afraid to be seen reaching for comfort. My mother felt that difference was dangerous. She took her life because of it.

I wish my parents had challenged themselves like I am attempting to do. Maybe they did, and I just don't know it. Maybe my mother never got a chance to try. I'm starting to wonder if I was that chance for her. I think I could've been, if she were here.

Regardless, I will not live like this forever. I will not die alone like a rat in the catacombs. I will do all that I can to mend the broken bits inside myself.

The goatherd and I will always be different. But maybe, when I'm with Simon, I too can exist with my full, unflattering self on display. Today was progress. It was weird, filthy progress, but still. I was willingly vulnerable and present with him to an unprecedented degree.

The water beats down on my back like a pressure washer. I imagine my damage peeling away like chips of old paint riddled with lead. Like a ceiling being stripped of its asbestos. The longer I sit here, the more unencumbered I will be. Soon, I will see flecks of my defenses mixing with the water and slipping down the drain.

I am an obstacle course for Simon to navigate, but he has handled every twist and turn. He treats me with care. He demonstrates that I am safe within his hands.

I want to show up for Simon, to the fullest extent that I am able to. Hopefully, with time, I will lessen the gap between what I can give and what we deserve.

The air is thick and wet, and it's time for me to stand up again. I wash the muck of the bathtub off my body, and I reach for the shampoo. Simon likes the way it smells. I like to make him happy.


	5. The Bed Again

Simon and I were intercepted on our way to the pitch by Bunce, Wellbelove, and a giant wicker basket. Bunce heaved the basket into Simon's arms and, without further explanation, began shoving him toward the Great Lawn. Wellbelove and I followed, trailing reluctantly behind.

"We're having a picnic?" I asked, eyeing the large blanket draped over her shoulder.

"So I've been told," she said, rolling her eyes and handing me a thick stack of napkins.

And now, the four of us are gathered on the blanket spread out beneath the ancient yew trees. Sunshine peaks through the leaves and the interlocking branches above us. We are littered in a confetti of light and shadow, like lace draped over the sun.

Half the school is here. A pair of eager fourth years are snogging to the right of us. The sixth years to the left are huddled around a silver flask. Students are napping in the shade and playing tag across the lawn. There's a drunken, celebratory feeling in the air. The Watford grounds are caked in the unbridled joy of youth in summer.

Nearby, an old boom box, probably pilfered from a dusty corner in the teacher's lounge, is spelled to life. The dial is set to some indie throwback station, and everyone nods along to music made before we were born. It's easy to be captured by nostalgia that doesn't belong to us, to be wistful for a time we've never known.

Bunce places the basket in the center of the blanket. She peels back the gingham cloth covering to reveal a cornucopia of fresh fruit. Nestled in the wicker is a bounty: berries, figs, apples, bunches of grapes, peaches, and fat slices of watermelon. Half of it shouldn't be available in early summer, but magic is always in season. It's a tableau fit for a renaissance painting. The fruit glitters in the light like gems.

"Where'd you get this?" I ask Bunce. Watford breakfasts are well stocked, but this is a market's worth of fresh produce.

"I have my connections, Basilton," she replies.

Wellbelove scoffs, pointing a lazy finger at me, and says, "She told Cook Pritchard it was for you."

Hah. Penelope Bunce, ever the pragmatist.

"Yes, well, you'll all thank me once exams start. Best to bond while we still have the opportunity." Bunce explains, leaning over to grab a handful of green grapes.

I don't eat, but the basket moves around the circle, getting lighter every time it reaches me. I like watching Simon take big bites of ripe watermelon. I like the way the juice runs in rivulets down his chin.

The breeze shifts, carrying the sweet, skunky smell of weed. I close my eyes and breathe in the aroma I associated with my aunt long before I knew what marijuana was. I picture Fiona leaning out her city window, barefoot and lit by the orange glow of burning paper. I can hear her constant refrain as she stubbed out spliffs into the grain of the windowsill: 

"Boyo, it makes bad days go down easy - and good days last forever."

I pull up my feet, spin around, and lean back against the blanket, arms stretched out like Christ. Simon is above my left shoulder, and against my right hand is Bunce's warm, dimpled thigh. She is round - full and strong in the way beautiful things tend to be. My touch is chilly, but she doesn't pull away. I'm monopolizing the space on the blanket, but I, too, make no effort to move.

I pay attention to everything and nothing all at once. Simon combs his hands through my hair. His short nails rake across my scalp. The weather is warm, but I feel a kinship with the cool earth beneath me.

Today is breezy and sugary on my tongue, like the fruit in the bellies of my friends. Every song feels prophetic as if the '90s existed in preparation for this exact moment in time. My classmates sing along to their favorite lines, crying out: _"But for now we are young, let us lay in the sun, and count every beautiful thing we can see."_

I open my eyes and look up at Simon. The sun filtering through the leaves casts a halo of light around him. His curls are edged in gold, like the tissue-thin pages of a Bible. He tips his face back in laughter, eyes squeezed shut and mouth _full_ of blackberry-stained teeth. 

Simon is a sacred text, and Simon is a regular boy. He is the intersection of blinding divinity and utter mundanity. And thank fucking Crowley, he is also my boyfriend.

I pick up a few threads of the conversation around me. Bunce recounts her plans for life after Watford, and Wellbelove demands a change of topic.

"Can we not ruin this?" she pleads.

Hear, hear, I think. 

And with that, I tune them out again. I can't think about the future right now. I am only just beginning to feel steady on my feet. At least I'm not Wellbelove, though. I'm scared, but I have plans. I know what I want next. The only thing Wellbelove wants is to run away from where she's headed.

"Basilton, I take your silence to mean you disagree," Bunce says, poking the center of my chest with one chubby finger.

"Correct," I respond, having no idea what she's talking about.

Simon swats my shoulder.

"What?" I ask him, "I'm here, aren't I? Isn't that enough?"

"Yes, we're so lucky to be in your presence," Wellbelove says, bowing her head repeatedly in my direction.

I prop myself onto my elbows and glare at her. "I'm glad you recognize the hierarchy in this scenario."

We exchange rude gestures, and I lean back again, melting across the blanket. Simon reaches into the basket, pulling out a strawberry. It's large and ruby-red. He brings it to my lips.

"Open," he tells me.

I do, and he places half of it between my teeth. I take an awkward bite into the flesh of the berry. It's huge and sweet and juicy. The seeds are rough against my tongue. I struggle to chew with my lips pulled over my fangs. Simon, staring at my mouth, suddenly hunches over and shields my face with hurried hands.

"Give him some privacy, guys. Come on," he demands. It's bold of him to be annoyed at their proximity when they have, in fact, been here the whole time.

"Bloody hell, Simon. I don't care about your boyfriend's fangs, but I don't want to witness whatever _this_ is," Wellbelove says while gesturing at us.

I like her so much more now that she doesn't fancy me. Mostly, I like her more now that she isn't dating my boyfriend. My fangs retract, and I push Simon's sticky hands out of my face. 

"That's fine," I tell her. "We're leaving, anyway."

The girls, to their credit, don't look surprised by my announcement. It's an unwritten rule between us that I come and go as I please. It's also an unwritten rule that I take Simon with me.

Bunce looks at me with narrowed eyes. "Just admit that you like us." she dares me.

I stand up abruptly. I fix the mess Simon made of my hair. "I have no immediate plans to do so," I tell her. 

This is another rule between us. I do not tell them that I enjoy their company.

Bunce, giving up on me, spells Simon's hands and face clean. A deep flush blooms across his cheeks. **Clean as a Whistle** always reminds Simon of sticky nights together. I pull him away by the arm before he can start blabbering about it.

On the walk back to the tower, Simon waves at no less than six groups of students. He's infuriatingly friendly. I spot Dev and Niall lounging with a gaggle of adoring 6th-years. The boys wolf-whistle and holler as we pass. I sneer at them over my shoulder.

Once we reach the stairs at the base of the tower, I remember our plans to spend the afternoon on the pitch. We're both dressed for it, wearing trainers and light layers. Simon's ass looks incredible in those damn red shorts as he climbs the steps ahead of me.

As soon as the door is closed, we kick our shoes off, and I drag Simon over to the bed. I walked in last month to find a single, uninterrupted mattress where two used to be. Thanks to a rather presumptuous spell from Bunce, Simon and I fit in here together. No longer do we struggle to keep our limbs from falling off the side.

We stretch out on top of the covers, with me, once again, on my back. Simon shimmies lower, pushing my jumper up to expose my torso. He rests his cheek against my bare stomach. This is how we sleep most nights: Simon's head rising and falling with each breath I take. His hands are continually tracing the indentations of my ribs, the dips around the bones of my hips.

"It's like the belly of a cat," he told me once. 

"You could claw my eyes out - shred me to bits - but you let me pet you here," he said, rubbing his face against the short, dark hair around my navel.

The window above our bed is open, and the ever-present stench of the moat filters in. A rowdy group of students has broken off from the pack and found its way to the pitch. There is shrieking and cheering and chanting from the ground below us.

The light streaming through the window is stronger than it was under the protection of the yew trees. I lean my head back into the pillow and bask in the gentle sting of sunshine. It almost feels nice, a little painful and still so sweet. Simon's damp breath ghosts across my skin, and I am happy.

A lot has changed between us over the last few weeks, but some has stayed the same. I have yet to undress in front of Simon. And, at this point, I am not a master of intimacy. However, on days like today, the impenetrable wall between us is nothing but a pile of rubble, waiting to be carted away. 

I still make Simon wank for me. I still watch him with hungry eyes. I just do it now with my hips slotted greedily against his. He masturbates, and I get off against the back of his slick, urgent fist. And sometimes, if I'm lucky, he shoves his thumb between my lips when I'm about to come.

Presently, Simon is applying soft kisses to my skin. He shifts to suck a wet spot below my ribs. His hand rubs, slow and reverent, up and down the hard length of me. Moving lower, he cups my balls with his palm and nuzzles his face into my belly.

"It feels like your turn, Baz." His words vibrate against my skin.

"Does it?" is all I manage.

"Yeah," he nods, still cupping me. He dips his tongue into my navel. "If you want," he adds.

I can't think of a reason to say no anymore. I've been close to initiating this step a dozen times over. It's difficult, though, to feel both scared _and_ ready. The alarm bells are ringing, but they aren't as deafening as they used to be. I hardly hear them, most days.

"Okay, Simon," I concede, "it's my turn."

He grabs more firmly between my legs and says, "Today's the fucking best."

He's quick to action after that, popping up and positioning himself in a straddle across the tops of my thighs. I push at his shirt until he takes charge, pulling it over his head. I clutch his soft waist in my hands and marvel at the strong and endless shoulders above me. Simon's form is lit by the beautiful, golden light. He's like a child's painting of the sun, broad strokes made in lemon-yellow acrylic.

Before I lose my nerve, I let go of his waist and hook my thumbs into the band of my shorts. 

"I've got it," he tells me, nudging my hands away.

 _Fuck._ Okay. I reach out and hold his spread thighs with a desperate grip. I cling to them like handlebars on a crowded bus.

Simon scoots back and shifts my shorts down. The moment I'm exposed is both monumental and utterly ordinary. I'm still technically clothed, but I'm pinned beneath the boy I love, and I'm naked where it counts. I don't feel some new level of adulthood unlocking, but I do have the bizarre urge to laugh. 

Simon's just staring down, looking thoughtful. He's thoughtful about my bare dick between his legs. The scrutiny is nerve-racking, and I'm less erect than I was a minute ago. Eventually, he places the warm pad of his thumb against the slit at my head. He presses until slickness leaks out. His tongue runs absentmindedly along the edge of his front teeth. I harden under his touch.

His thumb shifts in small, wet circles. He pauses, looking up at me, and asks if I'm ready. I say that I am. My mind is uncharacteristically vacant. Every cell in my body is sitting back, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. I am a tiny, quiet thing. But yeah, sure, I guess I'm ready.

Simon brings his palm up to my mouth and tells me to spit. I spit.

"Again," he tells me. And I do.

I want him to tell me to do it again. Instead, Simon wraps his hand around the width of my erection. His touch is hot around my cold skin. The first few tentative strokes are punctuated by the sound of the obnoxious crowd below. When the cheering starts, Simon grins.

"Merlin, Baz, you're brilliant," he tells me.

I don't know what to say to that. Instead, I ask, "It's not weird? Touching a guy?"

Simon rolls his eyes. "I know that you're a bloke. I didn't forget." 

He's tired of this conversation. He has been for a while. But it feels especially relevant, right now, with his hand where it is.

"I like everything about you." His fist is nestled tight against the dark, coarse hair at my base. "I like this," he adds, squeezing me for emphasis.

"Crowley, Snow."

"You believe me?" he asks, beginning to stroke again.

I tell him that I do, and I really mean it. I don't know if he likes boys, but I believe that he likes me. He's hard in those tiny red shorts, and he's looking down at the space between my legs like he's fucking hungry.

Another person's hand does not feel like your own. The nerve endings in my skin are the same, but the rest is different: different angle, different pressure, different cadence, different everything. His hands are calloused from brandishing his sword, and his grip is looser than I'm used to. He's filling a bathtub, one drop at a time. I'm standing there naked, waiting to get in.

There's something incredible to that, though, this blissful torture of _not quite enough_. If I'm going to come, he's going to have to drag it out of me, tug it from my body unwillingly. I'm leaking everywhere, but I feel like I'll never get there, and if I do, I'll never stop.

Simon is heavy on my legs, and I have pins and needles in my feet. A bright, hot feeling simmers inside of me. I want it to burn. I want him to brand me. I want him to mark me as his own.

His pace is consistent, relentless, and still _not nearly enough_.

I'm afraid I'll go feral if Simon doesn't do something more. I hiss sharp breaths between my teeth, like skinned knees on the pavement. His knees are covered in soft, blond hair. I clutch at them, desperately.

"Please," I breathe out, "I can't. I can't." What am I on about? I don't know. 

_I can't come. I can't think. I can't believe this is happening._

"You can, Baz," he tells me, bloody laughing as he does it.

Simon uses his forearm to brush the curls away from his face. Then, he tightens his grip and begins to rock his hips. I'm reminded of rutting against each other - on the bed and on the desk and against the garden wall. I picture his legs wrapped around my waist, heels digging into the flesh of my lower back. I picture my legs around his waist and how soft it would feel between my thighs.

I wedge the tips of my fingers behind his bent knees, searching for his pulse. When I find it, it's a drum beat, a fucking bass line strumming straight through me. There's a part of yourself that's only accessible during sex with someone you trust. It's a wild, raw part - one that ruts and pants and leaks and whimpers. I don't care that my fangs are out. I don't care that Simon knows I'm getting off on the rushing, pounding, purring of his blood.

Soon after, the inevitable rises inside me, savage and cruel. My hips push up off the bed and into his body. He strokes me through it, steering me to spill across my belly. 

Simon sits back on his heels, palms turned upward in his lap. He's breathing heavily and staring at the exposed parts of me. I go to pull my shorts back up, but my hands are knocked away.

"So pretty like this." He's pinning my wrists into the blanket. His words are barely above a whisper. 

"Flaccid and covered in ejaculate?" I laugh, feeling wrung out and delirious. I crawled across the finish line, and I am ravaged from the race.

"Relaxed," he answers. He releases my wrists, moving his hands to bracket the skin of my bare hips. 

He looks between those hands and says, "Really, though. You’re like a cup of black tea, Baz. Like chamomile."

It's a wild reversal of roles for us. Simon, a boy of action and few words, is speaking with unprecedented poetry. He's doing it while staring down at the come on my stomach and the soft dick flopped against my thigh.

"But yeah, you're pretty like this," he repeats, looking smug, "limp and covered in spunk."

I don't have it in me to feel embarrassed anymore. He's right; I am relaxed. My body is made of loosely packed soil. Any pressure at all, and I will collapse into a pile on the floor.

"Hold on," he tells me, rising to his knees, "this won't take long."

I love that this can happen between us. Simon Snow can pull his shorts down and just start wanking, without me having to ask. Half his ass is spilling over the waistband of those famous red shorts, and he's stroking himself on top of me. 

It's a welcome sight to see Simon's dick in his hand again. Watching The Chosen One pleasure himself is a perversion I cannot shake.

He promises to be quick, but he does not need to be. This is a boy who looks good on his knees. Those knees are spread wide, his hips are pitched straight, and he's towering over my position on the bed. The tip of his tongue is trapped between his teeth, and there's a flush high on his cheeks. My very own cherub, my little porcelain doll.

I just came, but Simon is stunning, and I'm starting to harden a bit. He meets my eyes, smirks, and returns his gaze back down. And he's right; it doesn't take long. Simon starts to sway. He hunches forward, planting a hasty hand by my head, and groans deep and heavy against my ear. He angles himself toward the mess on my stomach and comes. I feel the faintest splattering of thick, soft drops against my skin. It's warm, and there's a lot of it like there always is with him.

Still riding the aftershocks, Simon rubs the head of his dick across my middle. I feel like a sour cherry scone being carefully buttered at breakfast. 

He collapses back onto my thighs. Shaking his hand out, he flexes it open and closed. I did nothing this whole time, I didn't even move, but Simon doesn't seem to mind.

I need to clean myself now. Like the centerfold in a discarded girly mag, my pages are torn and sticky from overuse. I search blindly behind my head for my wand, stopping when Simon's fingers run through the come on my stomach. I guess he's not done yet.

He's drawing messy shapes onto my skin and looking thoughtful again. Why does he always look so thoughtful when he's doing something filthy?

"What did you used to think about?" he asks. His words are small and gentle.

I don't know what he's on about, so I don't answer.

"You said you touched yourself and thought of me," he explains. 

And shit, I said that months ago. I told him that I used to wank to the thought of him. I made a humiliating omission in a hormone-addled state. He's referencing it now like it was some romantic declaration.

"I don't know, Simon. Lots of things."

He waits for me to elaborate, demonstrating patience he does not usually possess.

"Kissing you, biting you," I say, "Everything, really. Your stupid curly hair."

His hands are still splayed across my stomach. I turn my eyes up to the ceiling, feeling vulnerable and needing to hide. It would take hours to detail each and every fantasy I had. I have no intention of trying. They're all embarrassing. They're all depraved. They're also, mostly, quite fucking sad. 

"I thought I could purge you from my system," I mutter, still staring up at the ceiling, "but I only ever made it worse."

From my position on the bed, I can hear the merewolves lapping at the water down below. I can hear the jeers of students on the pitch. But Simon is right on top of me, and I can't hear him. He isn't saying anything at all.

I look down at his hands. Both of us are still exposed. Simon is doing the most insane thing. I'm laying here, spiraling, and he's drawing a god damn heart into the come on my stomach. He's crafting a perverse valentine on my waist.

I reprimand him, "Merlin, Snow, that's disgusting." It's not, though. It's very, very cute.

He swipes two fingers through the mess on my stomach, scooping up what isn't already rubbed into my skin. He looks at me. His grin is wicked. 

"Open," he says. And, of course, I do. I am only ever waiting for his command.

Simon places his sticky fingers between my lips, feeding me the mess we've made. "I'm disgusting," he says, "and you're not gross at all, are you Baz?"

I shake my head no. I swallow around him. He's still knuckle-deep inside my mouth. 

We look at each other for a minute. His blue eyes are dark, shaded by his lashes. I suck on his fingers in that desperate, baby way like I always do. He shifts them in and out. He spreads them experimentally, and they bump and slide against my molars. He's practically petting me from the inside. I am used and cherished all at once.

Every time Simon presses his hands inside of me, I fear my fangs will pop. I fear that his flesh will tear and that everything we've built will disappear. But it hasn't happened yet. I haven't bitten him. I haven't tasted his blood. I breathe deeply through my nose until the fear subsides. It always does.

He taps his thumb against the damp corner of my mouth. Leaning closer, he whispers, "There are so many things I want to do to you. You have no idea."

It feels like a threat, like the most romantic one I've ever heard.

Reaching for his wrist, I pull his spit-soaked fingers from my mouth and place a kiss across his shiny knuckles. I grab my wand from the windowsill behind my head and spell us clean.

 **Clean as a whistle** is the only magic that exists between us when we're alone. It’s terribly punk-rock, like spitting in the face of every expectation the world of Mages heaved upon our shoulders. Our rebellion is a gentle one, born of kisses and come and cleaning each other when we're done.

Now that the mess is gone, we pull our shorts back up. Simon repositions himself with his head on my stomach again. Feeling rushes back into my feet. We settle into the familiarity of this position, the comfort of routine. My mind begins to wander.

Even during our dark days of antagonism, Simon was the beginning, middle, and end of everything. The Crucible bonded us together on that first day, but I was chained to him regardless. 

Simon has always been the earth, and I have always been the moon. He was life itself, and I was the cold, barren rock doomed to orbit him forever.

Now that we're dating, my days still begin and end with Simon. But, instead of circling him from a distance, we stand together. Our bodies collide, and I am not alone anymore. I lean into him for warmth and stability, and he leans into me for - well, I don't know yet. 

I'm getting better, though. Simon says I'm alive, and I'm starting to believe him. Dead things don't change, do they?

And I have changed. There is so much left to do, but I have progressed in many ways. 

Change, it turns out, is incremental. Coastal erosion may take centuries, but eventually, wind and water and sand will batter and carve its way into the land. Oceanfront properties will tumble straight into the sea. And hopefully, one day, I will think in a way that doesn't injure myself. One day, I will wake up with less pain in my heart.

Luckily, I can be with Simon and learn to heal at the same time. I am broken in a specific way, and he is broken too, but it is a wonder to exist openly together in the presence of those cracks.

Plus, he's really fucking attractive. And he's sweet to me. And I love him.

Simon's breath across my skin is warm and comforting. Just as I think he's about to fall asleep, my stomach makes a loud noise beneath his ear. He stirs and chuckles lazily.

"I can nap later, Baz. Let's go eat." He yawns and stretches his limbs out across the bed. He gets up on all fours and kisses my cheek. "Or hunt," he adds, "whatever you need."

I tug him closer and press my lips against his. He tastes sweet like blackberries and coppery like blood. He's right, I'm hungry, but I'd like to kiss him a little longer. The year is almost over, but for now, I have all the time in the world. 

Fiona's words run through my head again: "Boyo, it makes bad days go down easy - and good days last forever." The sticky smoke of marijuana is great and all, but those words belong to me in this moment. They belong to the sober experience of being spread out beneath Simon Snow.

I kiss him, and, even though my stomach continues to rumble, I do not stop. I run my tongue through his mouth and spread my hands across his freckled back. Here's to sunny days with Simon, I think. May they never end.


End file.
